


and that is the moment i am living for

by majesdane



Category: Dracula (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:52:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I will live seven times, and I will look for you and love you in each life.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and that is the moment i am living for

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the book _Midwinterblood_ , with references to _Carmilla_. Many thanks to [aphrodite_mine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine) for looking this over.

 

It's been a hundred years since we've met -- it may be another hundred before we meet again.  
\-- _The Age of Innocence_ , Edith Wharton

 

 

**2013 ; the apartment**

She finds a little apartment on the third floor of an old brownstone, just a few blocks down from Yale. It's a five minute walk to campus, more or less, and way more than she can afford on the modest salary she makes working at the small coffee shop downtown, but her parents agreed to pay for it. A graduation gift, they had called it. It was more than generous; it made her strangely uncomfortable. As if they had expected to pay all along.

She sees the girl two days after moving in, a week before classes start. Dark brown hair and ivory skin. Lucy passes her on her way to work that afternoon, holding the door open for her. The girl is carrying a cardboard box with the word _kitchen_ scribbled on the side in bold, black letters. Lucy's running late; she doesn't give the girl a second look.

It isn't until she comes back from work, later that evening, that she realizes the girl has actually moved into the brownstone. She's just starting up the stairs when she notices the door to the first floor apartment is slightly ajar. Pausing on the third step, she can hear the sound of low conversation, things being unpacked and moved around, the faint strains of music playing in the background. A man's laugh.

And then, a name: _Mina_.

;;

They see each other, the next day, in the laundry room in the basement. Or rather, Lucy notices her; the girl -- _Mina_ , Lucy thinks; her name is Mina -- is sitting on one of the chairs across from the dryer, reading a book, her headphones in. Lucy's already dutifully separated her whites from her colors upstairs; she dumps her clothes unceremoniously into the other, unoccupied washing machine, closing the lid with a sigh and punching the start button.

Mina glances up as Lucy passes by on her way out. She offers Lucy an easy smile.

"Hello," she says softly. She's English; the accent surprises Lucy, who nods in acknowledgement.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment. They're striking eyes, Lucy thinks immediately, enchanted. They're such a pale shade of blue, almost blue-gray. Like the color of dove feathers or the bottom of the fountain outside her parents' house or the sky after it's just finished raining. Lucy is still thinking about them long after she goes back down to tend to her laundry.

Mina isn't there when she returns. It's oddly disappointing.

;;

There's just something about her; it feels as though she's met her before. It's impossible, of course -- Lucy's never been to England, for one. Not even to Europe in general, even though most of her high school friends had parents who'd taken them to Milan or Paris or somewhere else Lucy envisioned as being romantic and lovely.

And yet, there it is. A nagging sort of familiarity. A sense of déjà vu. She can't explain it. All she knows is that she feels _connected_ to this girl. This girl, who she's never met and hasn't had an actual conversation with. It's impossible, she knows.

But the feeling persists. At night, she can't sleep; she dreams of dark hair and pale skin and striking blue eyes. She dreams of another time, lying in bed across from a dying fire; a flowering tree, a brilliant purple hue; the sickly wet feeling of blood on her face and neck and hands. She starts awake, panting, the sheets damp with sweat.

It feels as though she's forgotten something very important.

;;

They finally run into each other again, a few days later. Lucy is making her way down the stairs just as Mina's coming out of her apartment, pulling her door shut with a tight _click_. "Oh, hello," she says, as she looks up and sees Lucy just above her, paused on the steps. "Are you going out?"

"Class," Lucy says, nodding at the bag slung over her shoulder.

"Same. Introduction to Biotechnology. Kline Biology Tower."

Lucy smiles. She has class in the same building. "You know," she says, stepping down to Mina's level. "I don't think we've ever, you know, actually introduced ourselves. I'm Lucy Westenra. I live on the third floor."

"Mina. It's short for Wilhelmina," she clarifies, a second later. "I'm Wilhelmina Murray, and I live, well, here." She gestures to her door and grins.

"Mina," Lucy says, and she doesn't exactly know why, but she can't stop herself from smiling, as she reaches between them and shakes Mina's hand. "It's nice to meet you."

;;

 It starts slowly.

If they run into each other, both on the way out, they walk to class together. Lucy becomes increasingly aware of the the distance between them, their hands between them, the way she could just reach other and take Mina's hand in her own, and --

And soon the days melt into weeks and they don't just walk to class, but instead find themselves spending more and more time together.

Mina invites Lucy into her apartment and makes her tea and tells her all about London. She visits Lucy at work and Lucy makes a mental note of Mina's favorite drink; she always makes sure to bring her home a cup after her shift is over. Lucy's glasses are perpetually sliding down her nose and Mina is suddenly always there to gently push them back into place, the expression on her face so full of ... _something_ , that Lucy's stomach tightens.

They sit in the library on the second floor, near the back, alongside the tall windows that look out into the city. Lucy likes to sneak little glances over at Mina while they study; Mina, with her dark curls tied back into a messy bun, the glasses she only wears for reading sitting low on the bridge of her nose, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she mulls over a difficult problem.

There is something special about her. Lucy doesn't quite know what it is. But it makes her feel warm all over when Mina grabs Lucy's hand and they run along the street together in the slowly chilling autumn air, laughing. It makes her feel like she's found home, when Mina falls asleep on Lucy's shoulder while they're watching TV together in Lucy's apartment, with the slow clicking of the heater kicking on and rain pattering against the window in the background.

"Come on," Mina giggles, and pulls Lucy to her feet, spinning her around. The cool hardwood floor creaks as they slow dance to Dashboard Confessional, then Bright Eyes, with exaggerated twirls and spins, and the whole time Lucy's heart is thudding hard in her chest. She wonders if Mina can tell. She wonders if Mina feels the same. It's as if they have done this before, a long time ago.

Or in a dream, maybe.

"Oh," Mina says, as one song bleeds into another, and she sags against Lucy, slightly out of breath. She's just a tiny bit taller than Lucy; she puts their foreheads together, eyes closed. Her breath is warm on Lucy's face. She smells faintly of soap and sweat and the sweetly-scented shampoo she uses.

"Mina," Lucy murmurs.

Mina opens her eyes and looks at her and --

 

 

**1940 ; the war**

The hospital has become overrun with patients, since the bombing started. _The Blitz_ , they call it on the radio. It has been going on since May, only a few months after Mina began working at the hospital. She had been shocked, at first, by some of the injuries -- it was much different than seeing it in the cold, clinical environment of school -- but her shock dissipated rather quickly after the first few nights. Now it feels routine, expected. It's a kind of settling in. She wonders if this is what soldiers feel, out in the battlefield, numbed to the violence around them.

There is a blonde, nameless woman on the second floor, who Mina likes to visit during her rounds. The woman was brought in only a week ago; she'd been outside when the bombing had started and had gotten hit in the head with a piece of debris. _It was a foolish thing to do_ , the blonde had told Mina with a rueful smile. _I just couldn't stand to be inside my apartment or a shelter any longer. I felt as though I was suffocating._

The woman had been largely uninjured, outside of a nasty gash on the side of her head.

But she'd forgotten her own name.

"Shh, don't worry," Mina had soothed her, when the blonde had awoke with a start. Mina had been attending to another patient two beds over and had rushed to the woman's side, taking hold her of her hand and stroking it gently. "You're okay," Mina had said. "You're in hospital. You were injured in a bombing the other day." She paused, remembering the name on the chart at the end of the woman's bed: _Jane Doe_ , it was written, in slanting, smudged blue letters. There was no identification found on her person when she was picked up by rescue workers.

"Do you … do you know your name?" she asked quietly.

The woman frowned. "I … I don't know," she said slowly, after a minute, eyes bright and shining. "I don't know. I can't remember!" She cried, tears rolling down her cheeks. "How can I not remember?"

"I'm sorry," Mina said softly. She didn't know what to do. She made to stand, embarrassed.

"No, please," the woman said, grasping Mina's hand tightly. "Please stay with me?"

Mina had rounds to do. There were other patients to attend to, things to do before her shift was up. But she had sat back down anyway, on the edge of the bed, and held the woman's hand until she cried herself to sleep. Perhaps it was because she felt sorry for her, or perhaps it was because there was a kind of familiarity to the woman. As if they'd met before.

When she left the hospital early that morning, she was still thinking about the woman.

;;

"When will I be discharged?" the woman asks. The wound on her head is nearly healed.

"When you can remember your name, I suppose," Mina tells her. They're playing rummy during Mina's lunch break, the cards spread out on the hospital bed. The woman is sitting up, cross-legged. Her hair is pulled back, but a strand has worked itself loose; it falls in the woman's eyes when she looks down, studying her cards. Mina has the strangest desire to reach forward and tuck it behind her ear.

"And what if I don't remember?"

Mina doesn't know. She says as much. "They can't keep you here forever, though."

They lapse into silence, their card game forgotten.

"Maybe it would be nice not to remember," the woman says, after a long while. "I could be a whole new person. I could have a whole new life." She smiles, but it's a pained, forced smile. "It could be nice, couldn't it?"

;;

Her name is Lucy.

Lucy _Westenra_ , as it turns out, the only child of one of the wealthiest couples in London.

It isn't until Mina hears the name does she finally realize that the reason Lucy had seemed so familiar to her is because she'd seen Lucy's picture in the newspaper. Only a few months ago had her engagement been listed in the _Evening Standard_. Engaged to an Alistair something-or-other; Mina couldn't remember.

Lucy smiles at her parents. She says that she has missed them, that she was afraid they wouldn't find her. She laughs at her own silliness. She sits with them in the day room and tells them all about her time spent here in hospital and how much she is looking forward to being home again. She asks about her fiancé (he is just fine, of course; men like him are not expected to go to the front lines, after all).

But there's a sadness in her voice, Mina thinks. As if Lucy would have rather not been found at all.

Mina can't imagine why.

;;

Lucy is being discharged. Mina is the lobby, seeing her off.

"It is good to get out of here," Lucy sighs, pulling on her coat. It was the one she was found with; despite being washed, it is still stained with soot and dirt. "Mina," Lucy says suddenly, in a strange voice. She reaches out, catching hold of Mina's arm. "Thank you," she says. "I mean, for staying with me that night. I didn't want to be alone."

She holds Mina's gaze for a long moment, as if she's about to say something very important.

Mina does not breathe.

"Well," Lucy says finally, turning away. "My cab is waiting."

Mina nods. "Of course," she says. "Goodbye."

;;

She does not see her again.

 

 

**1896 ; the vampire**

They are eight years old when they first meet, at one of Mrs. Westenra's monthly tea socials. Lucy finds Mina in the Westerna's library, sitting in an oversized chair, her legs folded up underneath her and a heavy book in her lap. She is studying the pages diligently, her brow furled in concentration; she starts with surprise when Lucy utters a quiet _hello_.

"Sorry," Mina says, flushing. Lucy is amused by her embarrassment. "It's just -- well ... I was _bored_."

When Lucy shrugs and asks to know what she's been reading, Mina's eyes light up with delight. She quickly bursts into an excited explanation, gesturing wildly with her hands, and soon Lucy finds herself caught up in it all. When Lucy asks Mina to read to her, Mina grins and jumps off the chair, so that they can sit by the fire together.

It is like they are the best of friends already, even though they've only just met.

Lucy sits with her chin in her hands, watching Mina read aloud, and thinks that she does not want to _not_ be near Mina, ever.

;;

At fifteen, Lucy knows she is different. She knows it innately. She flirts and blushes and gossips. She feigns interest in all the boys that flock around her and Mina at socials. She's become very good at it: pretending. Because, in truth, she feels nothing for them -- only for Mina. Mina, who dances with her in their evening gowns when the fire is low, laughing and teasing. Mina, who falls asleep with one arm draped loosely around Lucy's waist, after they've stayed up half the night talking. Mina, who holds Lucy's hand in her own, while they are sitting side-by-side in church, who smiles at Lucy while they sing hymns and makes her lose her place.

Mina, her oldest and dearest friend, who when they were children, sat with her by the fire and read to her.

Mina, who will never -- could never -- feel the same. Lucy realizes this, five years later, when, buoyed up with confidence and false hope, she kisses Mina. Or tries to, anyway. Mina laughs at first -- until she realizes Lucy is serious, and pulls away, her eyes dark with confusion and anger and, and --

\-- and disgust.

And when all the words Lucy's been so desperately wanting to say come tumbling out her mouth, Mina cannot meet her gaze.

;;

It's been a miserable evening, the rain bringing in a deep fall chill, but she doesn't mind; the cold does not touch her.

Not anymore.

She sits and watches Mina, like she always has. Only now she's doing it from the shadows a rooftop away, gazing into Mina's bedroom window. She watches Mina brush out her hair for the evening and remembers how she used to comb Mina's hair when she stayed the night, how Mina would always close her eyes and sigh contentedly.

It's the little, ordinary moments like that which Lucy will miss the most. There will be no more evenings where they lie in bed together, giggling and talking about the future. No days when they will walk arm-in-arm through the streets. No more winter days when she and Mina will sit by the fire and read together, in silence. There is nothing left between them now. Alexander Grayson and Lady Jayne -- and she herself, she thinks bitterly -- have spoilt it all.

Whatever love Mina could have felt for her when she was alive -- she will never feel it now.

She thinks Mina pauses when she sets down her hairbrush.

She wonders if Mina might be thinking of her.

 

 

**1780 ; the painting**

They call it the Dresden Triptych. It is, apparently, quite famous, and Lucy supposes she should be honored to be allowed to see it. It's currently owned by a German general that her father knows through one connection or another; Lucy can't keep them all straight in her head. The general has a daughter Bertha, who, at twenty, is two years Lucy's junior, has perpetually rosy cheeks, and seems desperate for friendship. Lucy indulges her, out of sympathy, and lets herself be led into Bertha's father's gallery to be shown the painting.

It is not what she expects.

Her breath catches in her throat. She feels faint. She thinks, wildly, _I have seen that woman before. I know her._ She is suddenly overcome with the strongest feeling of recognition; she is reminded of the strange dreams that have haunted her since childhood, dreams of a past life she could not have possibly lived. For so long, she had dreamed of the woman in the painting. How was that possible? Surely it must be some kind of queer coincidence.

Bertha touches her elbow. "Are you alright?" she asks, eyes wide with concern. "You went pale, all of a sudden, and you had a … a look on your face." She pauses. "As if you'd seen a ghost."

"Of course not," Lucy snaps, embarrassed. Ghosts, indeed! She does not partake in such silly superstitions. "I'm just tired because of all the traveling today," she tells Bertha coolly, fanning herself. "It's nothing."

But she excuses herself to her rooms soon afterward, still shaken. Her husband is still downstairs with the other men and the bed is empty and cold, but she is glad to be alone. One of the maids has come in and stoked the fire to keep it warm, and she curls up beneath the blankets, her limbs heavy with exhaustion.

;;

"Are you feeling better?" Bertha asks, as they walk the grounds of her father's estate the next morning. "I'm awfully sorry to have caused you any trouble the other day. It's just, I thought you might like the painting."

"Yes, well, it was something," Lucy says dismissively. She is tired and cold from the miserable fall weather, and she'd hardly had a good night, after she'd retired to bed. Instead, she'd tossed and turned and slept fitfully, when she had at all. She feels worn out. She does not want to talk about the painting. She wishes to be home, in England.

However, Bertha seems determined to prattle on. "It's originally from an old family not far from here. Just a day of straight travel to the the west. My family -- that is, on my mother's side -- is distantly related to them." She says it with a kind of pride. "Of course, they all fell to ruin some time ago."

"Of course," Lucy murmurs. She can feel a headache coming on.

"You know," Bertha says, after a minute, in a slightly more demure tone, "my mother looked a lot like the woman in the painting. She had the very same eyes."

It strikes Lucy then, to look at Bertha. There is the curve to her nose, the slope of her neck, blue eyes … yes, Lucy thinks, her eyes searching Bertha's face. There is some small resemblance there, to the woman in the painting. The discovery only serves to feed her maddening curiosity.

"Do you have a painting of your mother?" Lucy asks, framing it under a guise of polite interest. "I should like to see it."

;;

It is her, Lucy thinks, gazing up at the painting in Bertha's room. The woman and Bertha's mother are one in the same. It's impossible, but they are. She steps closer to the portrait, close enough to see the individual brush strokes of the oil paint on the canvas. There is a plaque attached to the bottom of the frame that reads: _Wilhelmine Spielsdorf, 1740 - 1766_. Died six-and-twenty years of age, Lucy thinks, only four years older than I am now. Had she lived, I …

She doesn't know how to complete that thought.

"See?" Bertha says suddenly, startling Lucy. "Isn't the resemblance uncanny?" She gazes up at the painting appreciatively. "Sometimes I wonder if my father wanted the triptych because of it; they could nearly be the same woman."

"Yes," Lucy says. Her hands are trembling. She clasps the front of her skirts, to still them. "I was thinking the very same thing."

;;

She thinks of asking Bertha show her Wilhelmine's grave. It is too cruel, perhaps; instead Lucy wanders out on her own, seeking it out. She asks the gardener to point out the direction of the family cemetery, on the edge of the estate. She cannot help herself; she is drawn to this woman, the woman in the triptych, the woman in her dreams, the woman who she might have known had the stars aligned differently.

The gravestone is wide and tall, with ornate engravings. It is obviously well-attended to, by the groundskeeper or perhaps Bertha herself. Lucy kneels down, mindless of the wet grass from a recent rain, and traces her fingers along the letters on the front of the gravestone.

She tells herself that she should not be out here, like this. She cannot allow herself to be indulged in this newfound obsession of hers. Just last evening, she had been up half the night, pacing the room, torn between going to the painting, the triptych, to gaze upon them with wonder -- or to destroy them.

Lucy does not know what would be better.

It may very well drive her mad.

;;

Lucy and her husband return home shortly after.

She no longer dreams -- or, if she does, she does not remember; the laudanum clouds her mind.

 

 

**1722 ; the boy**

There is a boy named Luke, who works in her father's shipyard.

He is young and built of lean, sinewy muscle, his skin tan from endless days of working outside. His hair is bleached a pale, blinding blonde from the sun and saltwater. It's the color of sand; she spends many hours outside on the veranda gazing out at the ocean, the long stretch of beach that her father's house sits beside. She sits, more often than not, and thinks of Luke: moving crates, tying up a line of rope, straightening up and wiping the sweat from his brow, running his fingers through his hair. She imagines his hands are rough and calloused.

She wonders what it would be like to feel those hands on her skin. She puts her fingers up to her mouth and imagines her own fingers to be his. She thinks of him smiling, out on the docks, and then of his mouth on hers. He would smell of the ocean, she thinks. He would smell of sweat and salt and driftwood.

It's strange, she thinks. They have never spoken, not even a single word. She has heard him speak though, once, when she made a trip down to the docks to bring her father lunch. She had listened to Luke laughing, joking with the other sailors. He did not sound like the other men. His voice was different from the others. Lighter. Gentler.

She is betrothed to another man. Jonathan. His parents are wealthy merchants. He is tall and broad-shouldered and nice enough. It is a good match, she tells herself, and her parents are pleased. Soon they will be married and move to the city, where Jonathan has business as a solicitor. She knows that things will be good for them there, in London. But still her thoughts turn to Luke.

Luke, who is not a _he_ at all, who visited her in the night once, and calling to her softly, drew her outside.

"Perhaps you imagine yourself invisible, but I've seen you. Watching. You're the only one who sees me, and maybe I'm the only one who sees you. Do you think that's true?"

And she has no way to answer him because what _is_ the truth, other than to lean impossibly forward and press her lips to his -- to hers.

;;

Luke, who leaves shore one day and does not return.

 

 

**1530 ; the girl**

The girl is young, maybe six or seven years old, with a wild mane of hair and pink cheeks. Luzia finds her out in the barn one morning, after she'd finished milking the cows. The girl is curled up into a ball on a pile of hay, tucked away in a corner. Luzia's first instinct is to chase the girl off, but the girl's dress is threadbare, the hem torn and dirty, and she looks so small lying there -- Luzia feels sorry for her. The girl shivers in her sleep, and Luzia hikes up her skirts, crouching down to gently shake the girl awake.

The girl starts, jumping up, eyes wide.

"All is well," Luzia tells her, giving her a kind smile. "I won't hurt you."

The girl stares.

"Would you like to come inside?" Luzia asks, holding out her hand. The girl studies it for a moment before slipping her own little hand into Luzia's, nodding shyly. The little girl's hand is cold; Luzia wonders if she had been out in the barn all night.

Inside, Luzia dips a rag in a small bucket of water and cleans the girl's face, works the tangles out of the girl's hair and braids it, so that she looks at least a little more presentable. "What's your name?" Luzia asks, pinning the braid up in a loop on the back of the girl's head.

"Ilona."

"Ilona," Luzia repeats. She smiles. "That's a pretty name. A noble name."

The pink in Ilona's cheeks brightens and she mumbles a _thank you_ that makes Luzia's heart swell up with affection. She is suddenly glad she found the girl in the barn this morning. She stands up, brushing off her skirts. "Are you hungry, Ilona?"

;;

They are charmed, her husband and her, by Ilona. Their own child had died nearly five years ago, only just out of infancy, and they had not had another. Luzia takes Ilona out into the garden, out to the woods that border the edge of their small farm, and teaches her all of the things her own mother taught her. She points out the plants to be avoided at all costs and the ones that can be crushed and used in medicines. She teaches Ilona their names, how and where to find them.

Ilona is a curious, clever child. She has Luzia bring her to the apothecary's shop when they are in town, so that she can learn more.

"I want to be a physician," she tells Luzia cheerfully.

It is a child's dream. "Perhaps you shall," Luzia offers kindly.

;;

There is a young man, Jonah, in town who is quite taken with Ilona. He is a blacksmith, like his father; Luzia can tell when Ilona has been to see him; she smells of smoke and there are smudges of black on her hands or face. Luzia had only met him once before, when he was just a small boy. He is a tall, handsome man, with a gentle way of speaking.

She knows that Ilona is in love with him. She can see it in her face and in her voice, when she talks about him.

It pains Luzia to think of Ilona being married and leaving the house; Luzia was so lonely, before Ilona. She thinks she will be lonely again once Ilona marries. She can still remember finding Ilona as a little girl out in the barn, shivering in the cold, thin and pale. Ilona is not _hers_ , she knows, not really, but she has grown to love her as such. She could have very well given birth to her, she thinks.

Ilona has never mentioned where she came from. She has never spoken of another mother or father or home. Luzia sometimes wonders if Ilona even remembers that life at all.

Or, perhaps, she has never wanted or cared to remember.

;;

Ilona marries in the spring, in the small town church. She is beautiful, in a simple white dress, a crown of flowers upon her head. Luzia weeps at the sight of her.

 

 

**1465 ; the garden**

They sit in the garden, sometimes, and she braids Ilona's hair. She likes to run her fingers through it, the dark curls silky and smooth against her touch. She slowly combs through, undoing any tangles as gently as possible. In spring, the garden is awash with the scent of new flowers. Ilona leans against her, smiling contentedly. "Lucia," she sighs quietly. The name sounds different when she says it. Sweeter.

They do not seem so different here, in the the garden, at times like these. They are friends, almost. Or closer than that, perhaps; sometimes Ilona catches her hand and presses kisses against her palm. Against her cheek. Once, she kisses the corner of Lucia's mouth. It makes her lightheaded, dizzy.

On nights when Ilona is left alone, she calls to Lucia. Lucia thinks that she cannot bear to sleep alone; she too misses the feeling of Ilona in her arms, when Ilona's husband is home and Lucia is resigned to her own small bed in the servant's quarters. There is a strange kind of emptiness that makes her arms ache.

"You are good to me," Ilona says one evening in mid-spring, her voice heavy with sleep. She reaches for Lucia in the semi-darkness, laces their fingers together. "Promise me that you will never leave my side."

Lucia knows that Ilona could force her to stay there, that she could easily bind her to serve the house until death. She knows that Ilona could do whatever she wished with her. But she thinks that she would stay anyway, even given the choice. She has grown up in this place, she has grown up beside Ilona; she can't imagine being anywhere else.

She thinks Ilona would let her leave, if she asked. It makes her heart swell up in her chest.

 _Love_ , she thinks.

"I would follow you into the next life," she says.

Ilona smiles and kisses the back of Lucia's hand, her cheek. And then, just softly, for a moment, she presses their lips together. Lucia can scarcely breathe. Her heart seems to stop beating in her chest. Ilona closes her eyes with a smile, wrapping her arms around Lucia's waist and nestling closer against her.

;;

There is fear in Ilona's eyes, her arms twisted behind her back, holding her captive. Her face is pale and tear-streaked.

Her husband lies defeated on the floor, panting and bloodied, a boot on his back and a knife at his throat. He struggles on the ground, resisting, but his wrists have been bound and he can do nothing but squirm and shout curses, threats. He is afraid too, his fear manifesting in desperate anger.

Lucia feels strangely calm. She has never known this kind of calmness. There is a kind of finality to it, an acceptance. The knife is cold and sharp against her throat, ready and waiting. She knows she is not who they want, but she was in their way; she interfered. Or tried to, anyway. In any case, she is simply a nuisance to be disposed of.

"Ilona," she says, because there is nothing left to say. She has never said her name before.

"Lucia," Ilona whimpers.

She is sorry.

There is nothing to be sorry for, Lucia thinks.

"I -- ," Ilona cries out suddenly, as Lucia feels the press of the knife against her throat, sharper than before. "I will follow you," Ilona says, her eyes shining with tears. "I promise. I will follow you."

Lucia opens her mouth to speak or to cry out, but she has no voice left -- the blade is cutting into her skin now, and she can feel her own hot, wet blood, springing forth. She thinks of being caught in a summer rain; a warm palm pressed flat against her own; the sweet smell of the garden in the spring; the bright blue of Ilona's eyes; the view of the castle as she saw it from the carriage as a child, the stone cold and gray and imposing.

And then, nothing.

 

 

**2013 ; the apartment**

\-- Mina leans forward and kisses her.


End file.
